


Mercy

by tryptophan



Category: Captain America (Movies), Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Attempts at active voice were made, Author has issues with her religion, Catholic Bucky Barnes, Catholic Character, Catholic Steve Rogers, Gen, Tony Stark Is a Good Bro, disco ball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 12:07:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6153262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryptophan/pseuds/tryptophan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky studied him for a moment. “You’ve seen evil,” he stated, rather than asked.</p><p>Lantom hummed a little acknowledgment. “Is that how you view yourself? Evil?”</p><p>~~~</p><p>A newly-acquitted Bucky Barnes finds it hard forgive to himself for what he's done and finds it even harder to accept love and kindness from the person who's happiest he's back. Fr. Lantom, everyone's favorite no-nonsense priest attempts to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a mental image I couldn’t shake of Fr. Lantom and Bucky discussing justice and mercy over lattes. Once I started going through the arguments, I had to get it out of me, for reasons largely unrelated to Bucky, Steve, or the MCU in general. It’s a mess, but I figured I’d put it out into the wilds because maybe someone else needs this, too. This is also an exercise in forcing myself to write in active voice. I’ll call it a success in that not all of the sentences are in passive voice.
> 
> This is set in my own made-up world where Bucky has come in from the cold and been acquitted of all crimes. Both Steve and Bucky are Irish Catholic boys of varying degrees of religiosity, which is something that seems to be accepted in fanon. Steve knows Matt Murdock in both suits and employs both sets of Matt’s skills. Fr. Lantom is awesome because Fr. Lantom is awesome. 
> 
> This was written largely to purge some Catholic something from my system. I apologize to everyone.

With the trial a few weeks in the past, his best friend by his side, and a ridiculously large bank account, courtesy of seventy years’ back pay, Bucky could’ve gone anywhere, done anything, become anyone. And yet, he found himself in the city of his birth, largely spinning his wheels, and wondering exactly how much responsibility lay with the abuse at the hands of HYDRA and then the Soviets, and how much fell squarely on the shoulders of James Buchanan Barnes. 

Steve had of course offered the spare room in his apartment in Brooklyn, but Bucky surprised himself and took Tony up on his offer of a spare suite in Stark Tower. Living with his best friend in the same neighborhood they’d haunted before science, governments, and war had happened to them both simply conjured too many memories of what had been and what could’ve been and what he felt he didn’t deserve. It was easier to live with Stark on neutral ground, where he was largely unmolested, with the exception of a couple of Tony’s coffee-fueled hack sessions. 

It was one of those hack sessions that inspired Steve and Bucky to beat a hasty retreat from tower one Wednesday. Tony was in a particularly insufferable manic mood. He was ostensibly trying to do preventative maintenance on Bucky’s arm, but he kept insisting that he could rebuild Bucky’s arm better, stronger, faster, and that it could have awesome upgrades. Tony felt it’d especially benefit from one or all of the following: a chaff gun (red, white, and blue confetti!), a cell phone jammer (Bucky considered that one briefly, if only to exact revenge on the people in front of him in line at Trader Joe’s who wouldn’t get off their damn phones to pay for their damn cookie butter), a water pistol (“you could make gun fingers and actually squirt someone!”), an EMP (“wouldn’t it fry the arm, too?” “Not your right arm!”), or an argon reservoir so he could TIG weld on the fly (“Why would I want to do that, Tony? I’m not you.”). Steve finally grabbed Bucky and dragged him out, largely for Tony's protection, when Tony suggested he could fold up a disco ball in the forearm.

“At least Howard’s ideas were practical,” grumbled Bucky, as they stepped out into the less-than-fresh midday New York air. “What the hell would I do with a damn disco ball?”

“Distract the enemy with the absurdity?” Steve shrugged. “Let’s walk. I was afraid you were going to put Tony through a wall there.”

“Where are we walking to?”

“There’s a church that reminds me of St. Mary’s. I go sometimes when I’m in the neighborhood.”

Bucky sighed. “You still believe all that?”

“All what?” asked Steve, with a sideways glance.

“Religion. The Church. God and stuff.”

Steve considered. “Yeah Buck, I do,” he replied quietly. “You don’t, I take it?”

“How can you, with all you’ve seen?” He asked, deflecting the question.

“I do because of all I’ve seen. C’mon. If we hurry, we can make the noon Mass.” 

“The Winter Soldier does not darken church doors,” he replied sardonically. 

Steve regarded him sadly. “C’mon Bucky, you’re not him anymore. We used to go to church together, before the war. D’you remember?”

Bucky stopped. “Steve, I am not going to church with you. Besides, it’s a weekday, and only 90 year old widows go to daily Mass.” His face fell as the weight of what he’d said hit them both. “Fine. Church. At least there are no damn disco balls at church.” He paused, “there won’t be any disco balls, will there?” Steve assured him there wouldn’t. 

He had to admit that it did remind him of their childhood parish. The dark wood, heavy tones of the light filtered through the stained-glass, and that smell of dust, old incense, and snuffed out candles that no church could escape felt like a physical blow to somewhere deep within him. 

They chose seats in a back corner which afforded views of all entrances. Bucky thumbed through the hymnals, looking for songs he might recognize. 

It wasn’t the old Latin he’d learned despite his best efforts not to, and despite claiming not to have darkened church doors, Bucky knew the new Mass pretty well. The Soldier had done a job in El Salvador in the 80s that required enough familiarity with it to pass as a Catholic. Between the Spanish he remembered, the Latin he barely learned way back when, and the ruthlessly literal English translation, he understood what was going on. The little Latin used for the Eucharistic prayers was unchanged, and he was as surprised as Steve to find himself responding appropriately. 

He caught Steve casting a few sideways glances at him, but he kept his face impassive. When it came time for Communion, Steve stepped towards him, and Bucky sat back to allow him to pass. Steve looked at him inquisitively as he squeezed by. 

 

After the mercifully short Mass, Steve held him back from bolting for the exit. “Hold on a minute. Matt’s here, and I want to talk to him.” He led Bucky over to a well-dressed blind man who greeted Steve like an old friend, and both then promptly ignored Bucky while they started discussing something regarding someone using Steve’s likeness without his permission. Bucky tuned out the legal chatter and absently took in the stained glass windows and old carved wood of the church. When a dressed-down Fr. Lantom appeared, they finally paused their discussion.

“Matthew,” he said, acknowledging the softly-smiling lawyer. “Steven, always good to see you.”

“Likewise, Father. I appreciated the Latin, by the way.” He turned toward Bucky, “this is my friend, James.”

Bucky offered a polite “how do you do.” When Fr. Lantom offered lattes for all, Matt agreed, but said he needed to discuss some work with Steve, and would he mind waiting ten minutes or so.

“We’ll be on our way soon, Father. We really should get back to the tower. Matt and I just need to discuss some ongoing litigation. You should take him up on it, though,” Steve said, turning to Bucky. “He makes a good latte, and I remember how much you liked café au lait,” he said with a look that indicated he knew Bucky would get more than a dose of caffeine and dairy from said meeting. 

Bucky, hands in his pockets and looking like he’d rather throw himself on a grenade than go make small talk with a parish priest over fancy coffee, looked from Steve to the priest, shrugged in defeat, and acquiesced. “Sure, that sounds great, Father.”

They parted from the others and Lantom led him to the parish hall. “You make coffee for all your parishioners, Father?” asked Bucky, just to say something.

“All who’ll drink it. I’ve gotten pretty good at it, if I do say. I can even make some pictures in it,” he added, not without a hint of pride. “Please, sit.” He nodded at the folding chairs. “So, what brings you here?”

“A punk kid I knew growing up.”

Lantom chuckled. “That’s why you’re here today, but that’s not why you’re here right now, with me. I’m guessing it’s not for the coffee, though I do hope you’ll like it. I’m not sure what Steven wants me to say to you, or wants you to say to me, but you’re here rather than upstairs listening to legal chatter. Why?”

Bucky paused, and responded evasively, “I.. It seemed like the polite thing to do.”

“Hmm,” Lanton murmured, neither judgmental nor accusatory. He brought the two cups to the table and slid one in front of Bucky. Bucky peered into the cup, equal parts surprised and amused when he saw the design.

“Sacred heart. Very nice, Father,” he said in tone that hinted at amusement.

“I’ve been practicing that one.” 

They sipped in silence for a few moments. “Do you know who I am, Father?”

“You’re James, Steven’s friend.”

Bucky leveled an even look at him.

Lantom sighed. “Yes, James, I watch the news, and I know who Steven is.” 

“Does he come here a lot?”

“From time to time.”

“Probably when Tony’s too much.” Lantom huffed a little laugh in acknowledgment. “You’re not afraid to sit here with me?”

“You’ve been acquitted of all charges.”

“But you know what I’ve done.”

“As I said, I watch the news.”

Bucky studied him for a moment. “You’ve seen evil,” he stated, rather than asked.

Lantom hummed a little acknowledgment. “Is that how you view yourself? Evil?”

“I’ve killed dozens of people, and that was after the war. I betrayed my country. I… I betrayed my friend. I tried to kill my friend,” he stated in a tone that was somewhere between matter-of-fact and accusatory.

“If I remember correctly, there was some coercion involved,” offered Lantom mildly. 

Bucky looked at his hands and said nothing. 

“But you’re not that anymore.”

“Not if I can help it.”

Lantom paused, eyes fixed on a small crucifix on the wall. “Jesus built his church on someone he knew would deny him, someone whom he called Satan, his adversary, something obstructing his way. His love and forgiveness extended even to that."

“But that was St. Peter. Jesus gave him the keys to Heaven and built his church on him. He was saved. Judas, on the other hand…” countered Bucky.

“Judas was damned because he couldn’t forgive himself, and he didn’t believe he could be forgiven. He didn’t amend his life, he ended his life. St. Peter, in one of his rare moments of insight, recognized that Jesus was the Son of God, and that faith sustained him enough to accept that forgiveness and mercy could extend even to him, even after he’d abandoned his Lord and his God. 

Bucky sat silently, hearing but not comprehending.

“Do you think you’re beyond God’s mercy? Because that’s the sin of pride,” Lantom gently teased with a small smile.

“I’ll add it to the million Hail Marys I already owe,” responded Bucky drily.

“Are you looking for penance?” asked Lantom curiously.

“I don’t think the rest of my life is long enough to atone for what I’ve done, Father.”

“Perhaps not. But you weren’t paying very close attention in catechism, or you’d know that if you’re contrite and ask for forgiveness, it will be granted.”

“As long as you do your penance.”

“Which isn’t so much a punishment as a show of good faith that you are contrite and wish to amend your life. No amount of works will save you. That’s already been done.”

“Is this a confession, Father?” asked Bucky, half-joking.

“That’s up to you.”

Bucky contemplated his near-empty mug, all traces of the sacred heart long-since imbibed. “Shouldn’t we be, uh, upstairs in the confessional, then?”

“We can, if you’d prefer that, but it’s just as valid here, over lattes." He paused to take a sip. "Skip the formalities, if you want.”

Bucky considered for a long moment, composed himself, and started to speak at length of the wrongs he’d committed, occasionally alluding to wrongs also committed against him. He didn’t know names for many of his targets, didn’t even know if his memory of all of his jobs was complete. He knew he didn’t really have a choice whether or not to participate in these actions, but he also didn’t know how much of it he was able to do because of who he’d been to start with. The serum had augmented Steve’s body, but it’d also strengthened his moral compass. Had his version of it similarly strengthened the raw power in Bucky that allowed him to kill on behalf of his country and his friend? 

When he was through laying out a litany of sins that might’ve come close to comparing to some of what Lantom’d seen while living in a genocidal war zone, he sat, defeated, in his chair, one thumb idly tracing the lip of the coffee cup. 

“Oh, and some impure thoughts,” he tacked on, almost as an afterthought. 

“Of course,” acknowledge Lantom, perhaps with a trace of amusement under his impassive demeanor. “Anything else?”

“Whatever I’ve forgotten in these seventy years.”

Lantom paused to fully take in the miserable man sitting opposite him. “I’ll absolve you and give you penance, but before that, answer this: Why did God make you?”

Bucky hesistated and replied tentatively, “... to know Him, to love Him, and to serve Him ...”

“The Baltimore Catechism. Yes yes, very good. Do you know what they teach in Africa? ‘Because He thought we might enjoy it.’ Try to remember that. As for your penance, love yourself, allow others to love you and help you, and do so in turn.” He paused, and as an afterthought added, “And if you really feel like beating yourself up, add a rosary to your penance.”

~~~

Shortly after Fr. Lantom had absolved him, Matt appeared, attempting to look guileless, and told Bucky that Steve had requested his presence upstairs. Bucky thought it was a little suspect that Matt appeared just after Fr. Lantom had absolved Bucky, but he chose to ignore it. Bucky and Steve left to return to Tony. Steve had gotten three voicemails and several texts from him, all more or less stating that he’d resume working on Bucky’s arm without attempting to add any dance hall props. When Bucky emerged upstairs, he met Steve’s eye for a second. Steve gave a nearly imperceptible nod, and they started to make their way back to the tower. 

They walked in companionable silence for a bit before Bucky asked, “So, if Matt hadn’t been there, how were you planning on sticking me with Fr. Lantom?”

Steve tried to look affronted at the accusation of duplicity. Bucky just held his gaze right back at him. Steve relented.

“I figured I’d get us both lattes and then remember that I had to make a call and step out.” 

“You’re a tactical genius in the battlefield, and that’s the best you could come up with?” Bucky teased.

Steve chuckled. “He’s a good man.”

“I didn’t say he wasn’t.” 

“What’d you talk about?” Steve asked.

Bucky gave him a sideways glance, and Steve let it go. “Tony’s a good man, too,” he added.

“Yes, he is,” agreed Steve. “He tries to hide his goodness under an irreverent facade, and it often works. But he is a good man.”

“I’d hate to hurt a good man. He’s been so generous to put me up and do all that work on my arm, but still…” Bucky trailed off, causing Steve to glance over at him. “How much to rent your extra bedroom? Just till I find a place of my own in Brooklyn?”

Steve’s smile could’ve lit up all of Manhattan.

**Author's Note:**

> The job Bucky did in El Salvador was the assassination of Oscar Romero. 
> 
> Lantom usually does the Eucharistic prayer in English, but when Steve's there, he'll use as much Latin as he thinks he can get away with to try to make it feel more familiar for everyone's favorite nonagenarian. 
> 
> There are way too many details about Mass translations and languages. Sorry. I’m still sore about the 2011 changes.


End file.
